Mary Wilmot nee Bennett - Stained Summertime Sheets Short Story
by 11thDimension
Summary: This is an offshoot of my main Mary B. story, this takes place after her marriage to my OC Viscount Andrew Wilmot. He is a widower and has lost a child before, Mary loves him very much and is of course terrified of how her MISCARRIAGE will pain him. His way of thinking: he was away doing business and she miscarried, so he blames and hates himself.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One -

Pain wracked through her body as she lay there on the bedroom floor, half

tangled in summertime sheets. With her head tilted back, exposing the ashen

skin of her delicate throat, Mary weeped inaudibly. Her long, fine waves of sorrel

were matted against her clammed skin and the marble.

She was alone...the sun had not yet opened his eyes and the birds had not yet

begun their song. Not even the help had risen, and their quarters were far

beyond earshot. They would not hear her heaving sobs and weak cries. She was

alone in this godforsaken labyrinth, he was not here to offer her soft smiles and a

steady hand.

Her fair, sullen cheeks were stains with tears and her features were twisted with

the pain coursing through her core. The delicate silk of her nightdress was

stained with a deep red. Propping herself on her elbows and emitting a low

groan of despair, she gingerly brushed her fingertips across the dampness of her

womanhood. The precious red liquid was stark in contrast to her fingertips, that

was what Mary first observed, it was very dark. Her soft brown orbs widened as

the realization began to dawn on her.

Not this. Anything but this...they couldn't bear this now.

The thick, disturbing smell of the blood pooling between her thighs rose to her

face. Feeling a ball forming in her throat, she jerked her head to the side and

attempted to calm her growing wails. Mary couldn't tear her eyes from the

violent smears on the floor and on the skin of her thighs. This...

Leaning against the post of their bed, Mary pulled herself from the ground and

was met with the tickling of slowing rivets of blood running down her legs. For a

brief moment, she slumped heavily against the post and gazed forlornly at the

window before her, the sun's rays had begun their ascent through the trees. The

air was stale and tense as she struggled to wipe the tears from her face.

Mary's paled, chapped lips twisted as she felt the breaking in her chest come

again. An almost animalistic, distressed cry ripped itself from Mary's heaving

chest. Why? They had wanted this for so long...she didn't want to cause him any

more pain.

Why would God let this happen? Why would He punish such a kind hearted and

gentle soul? What God would smite an innocent life? What God would return

faith with...this?

Falling to her knees into the pool of blood before her, Mary

pressed her palms against her face, staining her skin. Like her husband did only

two years ago for his daughter, she mourned her lost child.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: I'm so sorry this is late, I've been wondering how to continue this short story. I think this will serve well as a nice bridge between Mary's miscarriage and Andrew learning of it. I know this chapter isn't as well written as the last, so I'm sorry. Don't worry, I'm writing the third chapter and it's coming together very nicely. :) Thank you for your reviews, if you have any ideas about things I could include or if you have a character you want me to include in the big story please do not hesitate to tell me!

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Chapter Two -

Pitiful.

It had not been four weeks since he had last seen her and all that filled his mind was Mary's image. The day he had left to attend to his multitude of duties was fierce and hot. They had fled outdoors to the gardens and were pleased to discover it was cooler then the inside of the manor. They wandered the grounds and behaved as though they were country lovers, forgoing all their elegant manners and discarding all their worries.

Her hair had danced about her face beneath the intense sun, tousled by the same warm breeze that had drove them to this sanctuary near the banks of the lake. It had long since fallen from its oppressive perch on the back of her head, and cascaded down her freckling shoulders. Her lips, soft and pink, were rather thin but charming. They were even more so when opened around witty, almost sharp words. Such words sounded as though they were sweet nothings to him, immersed in her ethereal voice. It was light and pleasing to the ears, soft and delicate. Her features were unlike those of any woman Andrew had laid eyes upon; they were gloriously fair and smooth, without blemish and color.

But her eyes...God forgive him, those eyes had sent shivers down his spine and brought a flare of life to his cheeks when he first shared eye contact with her.

To another perhaps they were plain and without charm, but they consisted of the most enchanting shade of deep brown he had ever seen. Those eyes were not of a common shade, they were a rich cognac brown with darkened depths that beckoned those who happened to notice.

Andrew had seen a great many of emotions fill those eyes, he had seen a great many blows crash against the stalwart columns that guarded her soft heart. This poor creature, who he had grown to love with a terrible fierceness, had endured hell in her young life.

The second he met her eyes for the first time, he wanted to tear those columns down. He did not care if he tore his fingernails and bloodied his knuckles, he wanted to destroy her emotionless facade. He wanted her to stop pretending that she did not care what women like Lady Adelaide thought of her, to stop berating herself for not being what society considered beautiful. Lord Andrew Wilmot wanted the demure Miss. Mary Bennett to melt into him and accept his hand, in the both the figurative and literal sense. There was nothing he wanted more at that moment than for her to trust him with her deepest and most painful of thoughts.

The moment Andrew realized that he had fallen ardently and irreversibly in love with Mary, he yearned for her to accept and believe in the feeling of being loved by another. He wished for her to voice everything to him: her wildest of dreams, her innumerable vexations and fears, her fantasies...he wanted to guide and shield her in life as though his life depended on it. Both society and the cruel words of her own family had backed Mary into a dead end, she cowered from those around her and attempted to slip her way through the swarm only to be thrusted back every time.

Two years passed and they struggled through life together as hesitant lovers, but eventually she let herself fall against him and opened her heart to him. He vowed to hold her, comfort her,to forever listen and guide her. Andrew vowed to both her and his fathers that he would ease her from her pain, tear down her columns and shield her heart with his own. It became both his duty as her friend, and her husband.

Pitiful.

Returning his mind to the papers before him, the gentlemen let out a deep breath of annoyance. This had gone on for far too long, keeping men away from their families was a sort of cruel torture. His eyes were drawn to one of the many windows of Chatsworth Hall's main study, the light that poured through it was gradually dimming as the sun began his descent. Perhaps, he thought with a smile pulling at the edges of his lips, if he spent the night in the study finishing the paperwork he could be a healthy distance from his brother's home by midday tomorrow. If he were lucky, he would lounging in Alnwick Place's parlour listening to his waspish wife's speak with ardor about the questionable texts his sister Euphemia had recommended to her.

Andrew settled back into his work with rare sense of exuberance, his hand pulling graceful streaks of ink across the sheets. There was nothing he missed more than her expressive eyes, he briefly wondered what he would see in them before his mind was thoroughly engrossed with his work.


End file.
